To the left, purple and pink swirl and dance around the sky as if to aggressively offer decorative tips to the stubborn somber blue shadow casted on the right side. I imagine it smells like a mixture of the ocean and cotton candy up there. The sun is descending, leaving the colors alone to battle. I see my reflection in the library window. I look tired. I feel old. Young girls run across the parking lot headed towards their cars to savor a night in a life that will last forever, or so they think. Hoping to avoid a stream of cynical thoughts, I turn my attention to the Bradford Pear trees and notice that they have started to dress their branches with the purest most beautiful white, as if they were preparing for a perfect and flawless wedding day. The birds chirp music through the crisp morning air singing attention to the sun as it rises. It adds an annoyingly lovely melody to the wondrous festivities of the beautifully dressed trees. The sun has started to come up earlier in the morning and stay later. I guess it stored up its energy during the winter months; because whenever I squint my eyes ever so slightly in the morning the sun is there, lavishly pouring the brightest light straight through the cracks in my closed blinds. This time I open the blinds. And I breathe in the light and let it soak into my body, hoping it will melt away the moldy clutter that has set itself into my skin. It does, and I can feel it start to melt. I can’t describe how amazing that feels; not in words anyways. It whispers secrets softly into my soul giving me the most intrinsic feeling that makes me feel like my lungs are going to burst. Like my body is laughing so hard it can't breathe. But all that happens in the morning, because the night time...well, the night time is not quite that kind to me, not yet.
But, soon there would be white seeds from the trees that start flowing like magical pieces of white cloud dripping down and drifting through my air. That will mean it has been a year. It feels like more. The trees look far more beautiful in their white than I would have in mine, anyways. The birds sing a more beautiful song than any rendition of the Beatles that would come winding out the speakers and bouncing off the trees that were tied together with white ribbons in that garden, too. These thoughts don't sting as deeply anymore, because there is no earthly creation that is more beautiful than God's enduring hand, in which mine is wrapped up. I cling to such faithful hands; such perfect and balanced agile hands that know exactly when to act and when to hold back; such perfect hands that know when to let me cry and when to hold me and make me face myself in a deep mirror with the most humiliating reflections; such perfect hands to take the punches I throw in anger and the words I throw in pain – to let me beat on His powerful chest with my tired fists and sit by me while I writhed uncomfortably begging Him to change the situation. There is nothing more beautiful than the hand that holds mine.
Yet still, this place is bittersweet to me, especially in the spring; especially this particular spring. I need to get out for a while...
As I walked out into the smug Louisiana sun, a distinct smell comes wafting into my nose drawing memories upon the easel of my mind. It is a smell that can only be described as – West Monroe. It's the smell of the local Paper Mill. But to me, it is also the smell of the lake and my uncle's boat. It’s the smell of my aunt's hair shop. It's the smell of green apple cigars late at night on the back of a Jimmy, as my cousin and I deciphered the deepest meaning to life. It's the smell of the Louisiana wind blowing through my hair as my friend drove me around playing his rap music that pulsated into my body, so that I could dance away the ghosts in my head. It's the smell of understanding mortality, and the plague of sickness. It's the smell of seeing loved ones finally break. It's the smell of the knowledge of my beautiful nephew, who became my reason. It's the smell of family, the smell of love, and the smell of one of my many homes. It is also the smell of mistakes, and of pain. The smell of the words "what was I thinking" forming a heavy fist and laying its weight into my gut. It’s the smell of my past.
The pollen has formed a layer of yellow dust on my car and all over the outside furniture at my grandparent’s house. That means spring has begun to bloom in Monroe, too. I guess I was thinking that while I was driving away from Edmond, I was also driving away from spring. I wasn't, seeing that it had followed me the whole 500 miles. The flowers in the yard were blooming and we sat outside looking at all of them, while my granddad named each one. The winter months had been cleansed with a week of rain and it soaked through the dry land. The ground drank until it could drink no more and the leftover water sat above the land waiting for the saturated ground to grow thirsty once again. This extra water gave the crayfish a place to dwell, so it worked out well. The sun was shining bright through a chilly air; my favorite kind of weather. This meant spring made it’s way here to wash away the darkness and chill of the winter. Much like the spring of the year I had moved to Louisiana. This means it has been 4 years...
So many memories flooded my mind as I drove up and down the streets of my past. I avoided the dark corners and looked out for the sketchy agents that played such a habitual part of the scene in my past. However the houses from which I did run back and forth... were a dream. The people in the house on the right made me laugh. We held hands as we walked down memory lane stopping to look in the windows of all the different moments of the year I lived there. We sat around and soaked up each other's smiles and studied what changes time had painted on our faces and in our lives. We hugged each other attempting to make up for the years of separation. I hugged them a little longer; knowing that their touch was healing some of the pain those 4 years had antagonized into my heart. We gave the stars a good run as we stayed up until early hours in each other’s company. Those hours, however, were not enough to fill that void where I had missed each and every one of them. So the stars had the last laugh. We played and listened. We discussed and teased. But most of all, we laughed. They made me laugh. They reminded me how I was loved past all the dark corners and wound-creating mistakes of my past. They reminded me of being home.
In the house to the left I sat with two people whose faces had been sculpted by the hand of father time. Laughs, tears, smiles, disappointments and all the other emotions they had offered the years have set into their faces and formed a beautiful imprint of history. Their kitchen shelves were full of pitchers from different countries and their words were full of wisdom. She gazes off into the distance, at the sky, out the window, past the bird feeder that sat on their windowsill, while he talked so intelligently about the birds that flew in and out of their new yard. They could sit and watch those birds for hours. The "Mr. Robins" on Crestview lane in Monroe were well looked after now that the Grays had arrived. I wondered what she was thinking as my eyes followed the brilliant lines on her beautiful face. She ran a hand through her hair and I was so glad she was mine. She moved around slowly, yet gracefully. She once said that we are soul mates. I would have to agree. His eyes have grown softer with the years but they exude the same light they always have when he tells me his stories. Sometimes I have heard the stories he is telling, but I never say a word because I love to hear them again. He speaks with such emotion, such wisdom and such…brilliance. I sit at a pair of feet that have walked so many paths and I feel as if his stories are coming to life around me as he speaks. He preaches of his Father; a Father who has been so faithful; a father who has been gracious and blessed him; a Father who has walked alongside my grandfather upon the roads of time. We sit in their dining room listening to instrumental versions of new songs and they hum along. They laugh at a memory and sadly shake their heads at a pain. I soak it in. I feel like God has places two sources of light at the table with me, and their glow warms my soul. I feel at home.
Once, I wandered out into the night, away from the safety of both houses and found myself walking into a field of memories. Some of the memories scratched me as I walked past them, others bruised my ankles. Some of them tripped me up, and others took so long to clean off my legs when I stepped in their puddles. The sky over this field was darker and the air was heavy with guilt. The smell of cheap cologne stung my nostrils and brought tears to my eyes, so I cried. I continued on through the field that was bruising my body and plaguing my soul. The weeds of my mistakes that grew so rich and rampant in that field grabbed at my ankles. They weaved themselves up the calves of my legs and intertwined with each other. I recognized the cold feeling of them on my skin, but they felt so much colder and clammier this time. They slowed my pace but I continued walking. The weeds were surprised that I did not immediately give in to their persistence so they wounded around my leg tighter. My pace slowed as I grew tired from the grip of the vines. I thought to myself that I should sit and rest; my legs could use the break. I crouched down and gave in a little, so the vines let up some. Right then a light came on, so I reeled around to see the light that was flooding out from one of the houses. I turned around and walked towards the house, and the vines tugged a little but gave in to my conviction this time. I take a last look at the field and thought "I haven’t missed you at all". And I walked back towards home.
Back in Oklahoma the crisp and cold wind blows through me, intensifying the sadness I feel in my heart for being back here, as I walk the street alone. I stand outside my apartment and the snow floats around me (which will forever make me feel like I am in a giant life-sized snow globe). I wonder what everyone at all my different homes around the world are doing right now. The thought of them warms me. So does the coffee I am drinking. The silence of this romantically snow capped Saturday reflects its scene into my mind. The snowflakes dance freely with the cold wind and they fall to the ground where they either melt into puddles or decorate the green grass with the most beautiful and purest white. The grass looks far more beautiful in white than I would have, anyways.
